Future generations would never know that the great "Hawk-Eyes" Mihawk—the man who would one day reign as the World's Strongest Swordsman—used only basic, nameless slashes because of one lazy Marine Vice Admiral who couldn't be bothered to name his techniques.
Of course, Darren hadn't been entirely wrong when he'd said that names didn't matter. For a true master, technique names were just decoration—pretty titles for what was, at its heart, a matter of intent and execution.
Still, as Momonga watched Mihawk—once arrogant and dismissive—now gazing at Darren with near-reverent respect, the corner of his mouth twitched violently.
But the sight that followed wiped the smirk clean off his face.
Mihawk, his hand still slick with blood, drew in a deep breath. The air around him shifted. His amber eyes—sharp and unyielding like a hawk's—locked onto Darren with burning focus. Then, quietly but deliberately, he adjusted his stance and gripped Yoru with both hands.
The moment his fingers tightened around the hilt, everything changed.
An aura surged from his slender frame, raw and potent, like a legendary blade being drawn from its sheath after centuries of silence. The atmosphere itself seemed to tremble beneath the pressure.
Wind howled across the battlefield, whipping his coat and hair into a frenzy. His presence swelled—an unrestrained storm, the kind that could split the heavens.
"This is…" Momonga's voice faltered. His eyes widened.
That brat's aura… it's even stronger than before?!
No—it wasn't that his power had increased. Momonga could sense it clearly, as only a fellow swordsman could. The boy's swordsmanship hadn't grown in strength—it had grown in purity.
Like molten steel refined of every impurity, Mihawk's sword aura had been distilled into something sharper, clearer, terrifyingly clean.
"He… he's found his own path in swordsmanship!"
The thought slammed into Momonga like lightning, freezing him in place. His heart thundered in disbelief.
Finding one's own path—the true path of the sword—that was the dream of every swordsman to ever take up a blade. The dividing line between genius and legend.
To reach the realm of a Master Swordsman was already an arduous climb. The sea was filled with swordsmen capable of cutting steel, but only a handful could transcend that plateau—ascending into the realm of the Great Swordsmen.
And to do that, one needed more than strength or talent. One needed insight. A singular, defining understanding of the sword that belonged to no one else.
That enlightenment could not be taught. It could only be found.
And somehow, this kid—this fifteen, maybe sixteen-year-old—had found it here, in the middle of this ridiculous spar.
Momonga clenched his jaw so hard his teeth creaked. "That little brat… he's halfway there already…"
If Mihawk continued to refine this path, building upon it with real battle experience, it was only a matter of years—two, maybe three—before he would break through completely and join the ranks of the world's Great Swordsmen.
An eighteen-year-old Great Swordsman.
The thought alone made Momonga's temples throb.
What kind of monster is this?
His vision reddened with frustration. How many times have I let that bastard Darren's nonsense slip by? How many years have I followed his absurd rambling without so much as a single "epiphany"?
Beside him, Moria stood just as dumbfounded, his mouth hanging open.
How is this even possible? he thought, despair sinking into his gut. I challenged the King of the North Blue once and got crippled for my trouble. Lost an arm! And this kid—he challenges him and comes out stronger?
Meanwhile, Darren himself looked equally stunned.
He wasn't sure what he was witnessing. Swordsmanship levels, enlightenment, "finding one's path"—none of that made any sense to him. He just swung his sword harder when he wanted to hit harder.
And yet… there was no denying it. The pressure Mihawk now exuded was real.
It was focused. Condensed. Sharp enough to cut the air.
For a fleeting instant, Darren felt an uncanny familiarity in that presence. It reminded him of Garp's "Serious Fist"—that unyielding, condensed intent that stripped away everything unnecessary.
It was as if Mihawk himself had become a blade.
Is this kid for real…?
Darren blinked slowly, staring at his own hands. "I was just talking nonsense," he muttered under his breath. "And he actually… understood?"
For a moment, an image flashed across his mind—Kaido, sitting cross-legged atop a cliff, lecturing him with the drunk conviction of a philosopher.
So… does this make me a master swordsman now?
"Come, Darren!" Mihawk's voice rang out, strong and fervent. He held Yoru before him, its obsidian surface gleaming with predatory hunger.
A wild, exultant energy coursed through him. It was as if every lesson he'd ever learned, every technique he'd ever practiced, had dissolved into instinct. Every strike he imagined felt pure, perfect—inevitable.
He could feel it in his blood. He didn't just want to fight. He needed to.
The gale howled louder, the air thrumming with anticipation.
"Please," Mihawk declared, his tone alight with challenge and joy, "show me your strongest strike! And in return—I will show you mine!"
Darren blinked once, twice. The kid's eyes… were different now.
There was no arrogance left—only conviction.
The earlier exchanges had been sparring, tests of strength. But this next clash… it would be something else entirely.
Darren drew in a slow breath, his gaze sharpening.
"Very well."
He said no more.
No words were needed between those who risked everything for their dreams.
He raised his hand, his expression grave and steady. From the three blades hovering behind him, one slid forward, stopping just before his outstretched fingers.
Its pitch-black steel shimmered faintly with purple flame, the eerie glow twisting like dancing ghosts.
The shape of its three-pronged tsuba gave it away immediately—a blade born in Wano Country, forged in malice and legend.
Darren's voice was calm, reverent. "A demon blade of Wano… the hellfire of the Oni. Enma."
He exhaled slowly and wrapped his hand around its hilt.
To be continued...